


A New Leaf

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: How Novel [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arguing, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, John Watson is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, Making Up, Mystery Stories, New Year's Eve, New Year's Resolutions, Poetry, Romance, Sherlock is a Mess, Shy Sherlock, Unilock, Writer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: “For me?”The tone — wondering and disbelieving and amazed — nearly breaks John’s heart right then and there.“Of course for you.” John shifts closer, placing his hands over Sherlock’s. “You’re my lovely boyfriend, and it’s Christmas.”During the holidays, John comes face to face with some of Sherlock's deepest insecurities. And Sherlock tries to muster the courage to let his guard down.





	1. Chapter 1

In London, late autumn departs in a rush of chill wind. Everyone throws more layers on themselves even as they throw fairy lights on everything else. Despite the lack of snow, the holiday spirit is everywhere.

And all through the days leading up to Christmas, John finds himself facing the same question over and over again.

“So what’s he like?”

“He,” of course, referring to Sherlock.

This question pops up at the university’s holiday party, at a pub night with a group of John’s friends, and at a rather awkward lunch with Harry (thankfully sober, though John wondered if — hoped — it would last through the temptations of Christmas and New Year’s).

And each time he is asked this, after being unable to restrain himself from mentioning — to everyone, everywhere, all the time — that he has a dashing boyfriend, he realizes his answers are… lacking.

“He likes my books, criminology, and chemistry. He doesn’t eat much. He loves his landlady but won’t admit it. He’s very observant and brilliant and he doesn’t have much of a filter, especially around his brother, whom he can’t stand.”

That’s it.

But how can that be it? He doesn’t know what Sherlock wants to be when he graduates or about his childhood. He doesn’t know if Sherlock has ever had a relationship before or if he’s gay or bi or pan or what. He doesn’t know… so many things.

How does he know so little after two entire months? Why?

 

* * *

 

Christmas morning, those thoughts seem far away when John rolls over with a yawn to find Sherlock already awake and gazing at him. They don’t stay at each other’s flats every night, but when they do, waking up is John’s favourite thing to do. Sleepy Sherlock is surprisingly cuddly and affectionate.

Now, sleepy Sherlock leans over and kisses him. “Good morning.”

“Morning, you,” John murmurs. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas.”

Lazy from the drowsiness that still clings to them, they kiss for a while, enjoying the warmth and softness of Sherlock’s bed. John is glad; he’d feared for a while that, with how serious Sherlock tends to be, he would not be much in the Christmas spirit. Luckily, he’s been… well, at least not _entirely_ a Grinch about it all. He humoured John’s insistence they go to a holiday market (albeit with obvious reluctance if not outright verbal complaints). He also went to the university staff party as his date, and now, John is getting a Christmas morning kiss.

“Come on then.” He finally pulls away from Sherlock’s lips. “Let’s see what Father Christmas has brought us.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Oh, fine, spoilsport.” He grins and swings his legs out of bed. “Come see what _I_ got you, then.”

They make tea and start a fire in the fireplace, then kneel by the tree that stands in the corner of the room.

“Go on then.” Sherlock brandishes a small box. His eyes are sparkling, and John bites down on a grin. Perhaps Sherlock has more Christmas spirit than he’s been letting on.

They open the packages. John gets a few pairs of thick, woolen socks and a decadent box of chocolates. Sherlock gets a gleaming new kettle (this one with a large label that reads “FOR SCIENCE”), and—

“What’s this?” John freezes. He’s halfway to reaching for the last box under the tree, his special gift for Sherlock, when he is interrupted by a different package, pushed under his nose.

Sherlock smiles, a little shyly. “One last gift.”

John grins back, taking the thin, rectangular box. “What have you done?” He tears off the paper and blinks. “Sherlock?”

It’s a tablet, one of those sleek shiny ones with a keyboard that clips on.

“I… I know you carry notebooks, but you do most of your actual writing on the computer,” Sherlock rushes through his explanation, fiddling with a bit of discarded ribbon. “And I thought, if you got on a roll — not that you can type very fast—” he rolls his eyes, “but it’s… you know, another option. And you can get to the internet of course—”

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off firmly, though he smiles, “you don’t have to defend your gift. It’s… well, honestly _too_ generous. But thank you.”

“Do you like it?” Sherlock’s hands are still twisting the ribbon, his eyebrows crinkling in the middle.

“I do. And I’ll use it, probably more than you think.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump. Relieved. “Good. I… I’m glad you like it.”

John feels something inside him twist. Seeing Sherlock’s nerves over a matter as simple as a Christmas gift for his boyfriend makes John ache. He’s reminded once more, as he leans in to kiss him, to get to know this man’s heart better.

“Well, while I open this up,” he twitches the tablet box after they break apart, “why don’t you get that last box and see what’s inside?”

Sherlock frowns a bit at John, obviously sensing his casual tone is feigned. But he obeys, and John pretends to be focused on lifting the lid, taking out the tablet’s how-to manual, and skimming its contents. In reality, his attention is intent upon his boyfriend.

Sherlock tugs the box over to him, eyebrows lifting as he feels the heft of it, then tugs at the bow John had taken a full five minutes to tie properly. (He could have stopped at his first, halfhearted attempt, but this gift was special.) The bow soon falls away, as does the paper, revealing a plain cardboard box. John gives up the pretense of looking at the tablet as Sherlock pulls off the tape and lifts the flaps.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, “what… Is this what I…?”

“I don’t know,” John teases. “Why don’t you find out?”

But Sherlock is already diving into the box, shifting aside the styrofoam bits and pulling out one of the objects within. A leatherbound book, one of six. Each is a different color, though the gold lettering on the spines unites them as a series.

On the cover of the book in Sherlock’s hands is embossed a pair of letters, “S & S” along with a magnifying glass. Each book — which he’s now piling on his lap with incredulous motions — has the same.

Slowly, Sherlock turns the spine of the first book to face him.

“ _Felony in Finchley_ ,” he reads. “It… this is your first book. This is the entire series.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I know.”

“I’ve never seen this version…” Sherlock whispers.

“That’s because they don’t make this version.” John reaches out to pick up _Villainy in Vauxhall_ and admires the spine, with horizontal ridges all down it like an old-fashioned tome. “I got in contact with my publisher and had them specially made.”

“For me?”

The tone — wondering and disbelieving and amazed — nearly breaks John’s heart right then and there.

“Of course for you.” John shifts closer, placing his hands over Sherlock’s as they cradle the books like they’re made of vapor. “You’re my lovely boyfriend, and it’s Christmas.”

Sherlock’s astonished smile appears then, and he strokes over the S & S on the cover of _Finchley_. “This is…” he shakes his head, apparently too amazed for words.

John just wraps his arm around Sherlock. “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, John finds that despite the fact it’s a holiday, he can’t stop thinking, wondering… worrying.

Once Sherlock recovered from his shock at the book set, he snogged John rather enthusiastically, and they lay on the floor by the tree for a long while, celebrating. Then, once the hard surface was no longer comfortable, they migrated to the sofa. Sherlock marveled over the books while John set up his tablet.  
They eventually got hungry, which was when things started to go downhill.

While Sherlock grabbed the leftovers Mrs. Hudson had given him, John asked what he had thought to be an innocent question.

_“What were your Christmases like as a child? Were you one of those kids who woke up at the crack of dawn to jump on your parents’ bed, shrieking about presents?” John smiled, imagining a small Sherlock, curls a mess, giggling as he tore through shiny paper to reveal the treasures within._

_On the other side of the table, Sherlock stilled. He glanced down at his plate. “Not particularly. The holidays at home weren’t all that special.”_

_Though John waited, he didn’t elaborate. “Well,” he tried again, “did you believe in Father Christmas?”_

_“John,” Sherlock fixed him with a rather scornful look. “Do I strike you as the type of person to have ever believed in such a ridiculous fiction?” His tone told John in no uncertain terms that this line of interrogation was unwelcome, and John hastily changed the subject, not wanting to entirely ruin the earlier happiness that had bloomed between them._

Now, John wonders about it. Was he doing something wrong, somehow, asking Sherlock questions like that?

“John?” Sherlock’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “You’ve drifted away.”

“Oh,” John blinks. “Sorry. I think this mulled wine is making me a little maudlin.”

He fixes his gaze on Sherlock, who’s curled up on the floor beside him. They ended up on the rug of 221B a while ago, though to be honest, John can’t quite remember how or why. Somewhere around his third cup of Sherlock’s homemade mulled wine, he’s lost track of what’s going on.

Which is quite unfortunate, really, because Sherlock looks stunning in the firelight and fairy lights, the sharp angles of his face somehow softened.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

John shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s not important.”

Normally, Sherlock would press him, John knows, but they’re both in that grey area between tipsy and drunk, so instead he shrugs and swallows the last bit of his own cup of wine. Then, he sits back, a resigned look on his face.

“Alright then, I believe I’ve had enough alcohol for this. So what so-called classic Christmas film are you making me watch again?” Sherlock sets aside his cup, then stretches out on the rug. He pulls a blanket off his chair and drapes it over himself and John, then settles his head on John’s shoulder.

John smiles. As he opens the laptop and starts the film, he makes a silent resolution. He’ll ask more about Sherlock’s life, about his dreams.

After all, this has been the best Christmas of John’s life so far, and he intends to do the same for Sherlock. For as many future Christmases he’s willing to spend with John.

 

* * *

 

By the time Boxing Day arrives, both Sherlock and John are sick of being inside. So they dress and wander out into the streets, enjoying the brisk air after so long cooped up. They window shop, but when it starts to rain, John drags him into a bakery called Simpson’s for tea and scones, their conversation as meandering as their plans for the day. For once, Sherlock doesn’t mind. He likes spending time with John, no matter what they end up doing. He wonders if he should worry about that.

“Did I ever tell you about the time my friend pushed his girlfriend off the end of Brighton Pier?” John grins once they’re seated at the counter, sipping their piping hot drinks. He’s talkative today, though Sherlock fleetingly wonders at his motivation for such unconnected subjects. It’s as if he’s trying to suss something out. And yet Sherlock can’t quite deduce the reason.

Still, Sherlock humours him. “He did _what_?”

“Well, not on purpose!”

“I should certainly hope not.”

John chuckles. “You should have seen him when he realized she was in the water. He asked me to help him come up with some excuse. So while we were running down to the entrance of the pier to get to the water, I had to come up with an idea for him to tell her.” He smirks, looking rather pleased with himself.

“So what did he end up telling her?”

“He ended up playing it off as some kind of elaborate dating ritual, that it was a Brighton tradition. I wish I could remember the details I came up with, but I know it involved a goose and some kind of gemstone as the origin story.”

“Did… she buy that?” Sherlock’s brows knit together.

“Well… no,” John admits. “But she did tell me it was a good story.”

“She knew it was your story?” Sherlock asks, his lips twitching upward.

“Yeah, she told me her boyfriend wasn’t that creative.”

Sherlock chuckles. “What, is this _your_ origin story? ‘It was after this I realized I wanted to be a writer,’” he puts on a rather good imitation of John’s voice, if he does say so himself.

“No, actually,” John laughs. “I was already in uni studying writing. I’d loved stories since I was a kid. It was the best choice for me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says.

John smiles at him, then reaches out to take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock tries not to tense when he senses the shifting tone. _Honestly, Sherlock, it’s just John_ , he tells himself.

“So it’s your turn, Sherlock. Tell me about yourself. _Your_ origin story, if you will,” John prompts.

“What?”

“Well... we’ve been together for two months now, and yet…” he shrugs. “I don’t know much about you. You know, the real stuff.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “So all of our discussions were imaginary.”

John sighs. “You know what I mean. When did you first get into chemistry? What do you want to do after uni? What do you want to do with your degree? What are your... you know, ambitions?”

Sherlock blinks. “My ambitions?” It comes out unintentionally flabbergasted.

“Yeah.” John’s voice has a hint of irritation in it now. “Your ambitions. That’s the sort of things people in a relationship talk about.”

“And we’re in a relationship.” Sherlock wants to say it like a statement, but it comes out far too questioning for his liking. John seems to pick up on it too.

“Yes we are!” he insists, as if exasperated that he has to spell it out like this. “We’ve established this. We’ve started calling each other ‘boyfriend,’ we spend most of our free time together. We’ve also—” he cuts himself off, glances around, and continues in a lower voice. “We’ve also snogged all over what feels like half of London by now.”

Sherlock huffs a soft laugh, but it comes out only half-amused. “But that doesn’t sound so bad. Besides, we talk a lot about your writing and my school work.”

“I know, but…” John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Relationships aren’t built solely around a mutual love of one thing. We can’t only talk about books and school. At some point we’ve got to move on to other topics.”

“And that has to be right this second?” Sherlock crosses his arms and frowns. How can John ask him these things, as if… Well, as if Sherlock matters? As if he will _continue_ to matter?

John frowns. “Well, no, I suppose not, but…”

“Then I reserve the right to not do so,” Sherlock says firmly, “right this second.”

John sighs. “Fine.”

They’re silent for several moments, then John stands. “I need the loo.”

He heads off, and Sherlock grapples with a strange combination of anxiety and relief as he watches him go.

“I see you’re your usual friendly self,” a voice says behind him, and the relief vanishes.

“Sebastian.” Sherlock spins around on the stool. Sure enough, Sebastian Wilkes is seated at a table against the wall. The bakery is so small, however, that they are really only a few metres apart.

“Happy holidays.” The man smirks.

“To you as well.” Sherlock glowers. This is not at all what he wants to deal with right now.

“So I couldn’t help overhearing…” Sebastian stands, leaving behind his empty cup. “That bloke can’t be your _boyfriend_ , can he?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Don’t you? I do, especially since you decided to make my private life _your_ business last term,” Sebastian says.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Sherlock snaps back. “Was I _not_ supposed to tell our professor about your sexual harassment of your lab partner?” He eyed Sebastian up and down. “And I see you spent the night on another binge of yours. Cheap alcohol too, ugh. And how do you feel, knowing your parents are going to stop funding your uni enrollment if you don’t start passing? Must be frustrating.”

“See, that’s your problem, Sherlock,” Sebastian says with a sneer worthy of Mycroft, only much more malicious. “You never know when to let well enough alone. I’m guessing your… well, I can only assume he’s just a fuck, since no one in their right mind would actually _date_ you… But if he _is_ dating you… I’m guessing he doesn’t know what you’re really like? I have to admit, that is fairly clever, keeping it from him. Because he _is_ a bit of a looker. Hell, if I swung that way, I might have to ask him out—”

“Seb—” Sherlock warns, but Sebastian ignores him.

“In fact, if even _you_ can pull him, he must be easy. I might try it out, have some fun this New Year’s, yeah?”

Sherlock stands and faces Sebastian fully. He’s never been so glad he has a few inches over this viper. “Stay away from him. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like you.”

“Are you sure?” Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. “If even you—”

“Everything alright here?” the man behind the counter says, and Sebastian steps back. He pulls on a falsely charming smile.

“Of course.” When the man moves away to help another customer, though, Sebastian glares again. “Honestly, Sherlock, a freak like you isn’t going to last long in this situation. You’d better just quit while you’re ahead.”

Sherlock laughs without humour. “Should I settle for your lifestyle then? Hiring someone for sex on Christmas? Playing at being sophisticated but failing every class you take?”

Sebastian opens his mouth to retort, when a new voice cuts in, cool and fierce. “Excuse me, have we met?”

Sebastian turns to face John, who is smiling a dangerous smile. “We haven’t, no,” he says, voice sickeningly sweet.

“Aren’t you leaving?” Sherlock says pointedly.

Sebastian glances at him, then shrugs. He seems to know he’s done the damage he wanted to, and now has ammunition for the time they have class together. “No need to be rude,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Without another word, he strolls out the door.

Sherlock sits down with a growl, and John joins him.

“What was that about?” he asks, sounding concerned.

“Well…” Sherlock replies, with more reticence than he’d like. “Did… did you hear much of that?”

John shrugs. “Part of it at the end there. Who was he?”

“Just an acquaintance,” Sherlock says, eyes going wide as he realizes this is dangerous territory. He stands and, with frantic movements he can’t seem to control, gathers his things. “I’d better go.”

“What?” John says, startled. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says quickly. “I just… have to go.”

He scrambles up and departs, leaving a bemused John behind. Sherlock sets off down the street, his reflection on the café windows a rippling silhouette from the light rain that’s still falling.

He doesn’t even make it half a block away before he hears John calling out behind him. “Sherlock! Wait a second!”

He catches up at the corner and grasps Sherlock’s forearm to stay him. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock sighs and faces him. When he does, John links their fingers, his thumb brushing the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Stop,” he snaps, and John’s thumb freezes. His eyes go wide in surprise at Sherlock’s sharp tone. “I don’t know what I’ve been thinking, with all this.” He gestures between them with his free hand. “Because I don’t know what you feel this is, but…” he sighs, shoulders slumping. “This isn’t me, this quiet, soft… whatever you think I am.”

John’s lips part; he looks adrift, and Sherlock marvels at how the day has devolved so quickly into this.

“What are you talking about?” John asks.

“That, what you saw back there?” Sherlock waves toward the shop. “That’s me, really me. I am arrogant, and vindictive, and unfeeling. I don’t stop myself saying whatever comes to mind, and I have little regard for other people’s feelings. I have no friends because of this, nor do I need any.” He blinks the rain out of his eyes, and a few small droplets linger on his lashes. “I knew… I knew you would find out eventually.” His voice has lowered so much that John leans forward to catch his words. “I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”

And he tugs his arm out of John’s grip and walks away.

This time, John doesn’t chase after him.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours pass, during which Sherlock paces a canyon into his floor, his mind racing in frustrated, worried circles.

This is it. He’s ruined everything, finally driven John off. He’s known all along it would come to this. John is too good for him, so why on earth would he stay? He won’t fight for Sherlock, not after this. Not after already expressing frustration with him, after saying he wants Sherlock to be better — to be _different_ — and after seeing how he treats and is treated by people like Sebastian.

There is no way John will come back.

Sherlock only wishes his heart didn’t feel as if it were constricting within his chest at the thought he will never see the handsome, kind writer again.

He slows his frantic pacing in favour of leaning against the windowpane, gazing out dejectedly at the sight of London before him. He wants to resent those he sees down on the street, how their lives cannot be as awful as his this evening. Those people down there on their phones or hurrying to catch buses or walking arm in arm with significant others… none of them have driven away the best man in their lives.

The man who is… walking down Baker Street?

Sherlock jerks back from the window with a soft gasp, before remembering that the curtain is blocking him from direct view, and the lack of lights in the flat will make it impossible for John to see him if he looks up. So Sherlock approaches the window again, peering out and down at the writer.

John’s hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed. He slows before the door to 221, staring at it. As he hesitates, Sherlock examines him.

Conflicted, concerned, upset. Obviously indecisive. Has spent the last few hours in Regent’s Park, probably debating whether or not to come back here.

He steps toward the door, hand lifting toward the knocker. But then he stops and steps back with a slight shake of the head. Sherlock watches, heart falling, as he begins to walk away. But John only gets two steps before he is turning back, staring at the knocker once more.

And without warning, Sherlock is reminded of something he read in one of John’s own books. A quote, spoken by Sherrinford to James Sacker when he’d watched a client hesitate to enter.

“ _Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair, my dear James._ ”

Sherlock reaches for his phone. As he listens to it ring, he watches John reach for his.

“Sherlock,” John says in lieu of a usual greeting, “I was just thinking about you. Well… haven’t been able to stop, really. Are you okay?”

At that, he blinks, frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?” It’s a nonsensical, untruthful answer, but he isn’t quite sure what to think of this concern. He’s been expecting a fight.

“Just… you were so upset earlier.” John runs a hand over his face, seemingly trying to muster his words. “I… Listen, I won’t pretend I have any idea what that was all about at Simpson’s, but… I can’t stop thinking about what you said.”

“Which part?” Sherlock keeps his voice flat, holding back the deductions and rebuttals he desperately wishes to say.

“Where you said I didn’t know the real you. Where you said that arrogant vindictive person back in the shop was the real you. But Sherlock, that’s not true.”

“John—”

“I know I’ve only known you a couple months, but—”

“John—”

“—I think that’s long enough to know you, at least a bit, and—”

“John!” Sherlock snaps, exasperated. “Can we maybe continue this conversation face to face? You know I dislike phone calls.”

“Oh.” John swallows. “Sure. Do… you want to meet somewhere? Or we can—”

“Just come in.”

John blinks. “What?”

“I know you’re outside, so come in.”

John whirls around and peers up toward the window. The drizzle had ended an hour ago, though the roads still glisten in the lamplight and fading sunlight. When Sherlock moves the curtain back, John must see the movement, if not Sherlock inside, because his eyes widen.

“Oh,” John repeats and hurries up to the door. Sherlock hangs up and buzzes him in. Within seconds, John’s footsteps sound on the stairs. Then the man himself appears.

“Hi,” he mutters, shuffling his feet.

“Hello, John.”

They stare at each other. Finally, after several lengthy moments, John clears his throat. “I’m glad you called.”

“I, erm, was told I ought not leave conversations hanging the way I did earlier,” Sherlock admits. He stands by the window still, hands deep in pockets.

John raises his eyebrows. “Mrs. Hudson say that?”

Sherlock nods. “Of course.”

They regard one another for another few moments. Then, Sherlock beckons him in. John shrugs off his coat and they sit together on the sofa, a careful two feet between them. The space makes Sherlock ache for John — ache to pull him close and stroke his hair until everything is alright again.

“Sherlock, will you please tell me what’s wrong?” John finally breaks the silence. “Why are you so upset I saw you talking to that bloke?”

Sherlock takes an age finding the right response. He stares into his own lap, where his hands clasp together in a viselike grip.

“I’m not well-liked, John,” he says at last. “Most people find me irritating or unpleasant or downright horrible. And… I do not do much to change those opinions. I know I am difficult…”

“I don’t think that,” John says quickly, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“Because I haven’t let you see,” he says. “When I came to your book signing, I was making sure I was polite and friendly because I admired your writing. And when I saw you…” His cheeks heat, remembering how flustered he had been, when he had realized that his favourite author was also heart-stoppingly handsome and charming. “I wanted you to like me in return.”

“So?” John shifts closer, just an inch or two. “That doesn’t mean everything I’ve seen of you has been a lie, like you implied earlier.”

“But you didn’t have vital information about me,” Sherlock insists. “I’m so much worse than what you’ve seen.”

John stares. “I don’t understand.”

And the way he looks at Sherlock… Sometimes Sherlock hates how well he can deduce, because he can nearly read John’s mind. John looks so confused, as if he cannot understand how could someone as brilliant and insightful and witty and fascinating as Sherlock believe he is so horrible.

 _Easily, John_ , he thinks.

John is frowning. “Sherlock, you’re lovely.”

Sherlock shakes his head. That is precisely the opposite of what the rest of the world has told him, precisely the opposite of what all the evidence says. “I’m really not.”

“You are,” John insists. Now, he moves close and takes his hand. “These past months have been amazing. But... I can’t help but notice I hardly know anything about you. I don’t know much more than what I learned the day we met.”

Sherlock blinks. There is accusation, gentle, but still insistent, in John’s words. “You think I don’t trust you?” he asks.

John hesitates a second too long. Sherlock leans back, eyes widening. “You do,” he says, dread settling onto his chest like a physical weight. “You do think that.”

“Sherlock,” John sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Well, what then?” Sherlock frowns.

“I’m just not…” he pauses, swallowing. “Not sure it’s a fair trade, between you and me. I confide in you much more than you confide in me.”

“It’s only been two months—” Sherlock begins. It seems his mind has decided off its own accord to go on the defensive.

“I know, but—”

“You think that’s enough time for someone like me to have decided to just hand over... everything?” He flaps a hand at himself.

John frowns. He appears to have twigged to something in Sherlock’s voice, in his words, and Sherlock resists the urge to panic. “What do you mean, someone like you?”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump. “You don’t understand.”

“Try to explain,” John murmurs. “Please.”

Sherlock stares him down, trying to convince John without words to drop this subject, because he doesn’t think he can handle this. John just waits, gaze steady and earnest. And dammit, how can Sherlock refuse _that_ look?

More than once, Sherlock attempts to speak, but the words stick in his throat. This… _sentiment_ is disconcerting. He wants to hate it, but hatred is a difficult emotion to muster when John’s hand is wrapped around his.

“Alright,” John sighs. “I think this conversation requires some tea, don’t you?”

 

* * *

 

By the time the tea is brewed and John has wrapped Sherlock’s fingers around the warm mug for him — wanting, needing, to care for him — Sherlock seems slightly calmer, less deer-in-the-headlights. Still, John keeps a close eye on him. After two months of distance, of guardedness, this must be overwhelming for Sherlock. In fact, it’s overwhelming for John as well, who isn’t used to this. He’s never felt about anyone the way he feels about this unusual, captivating chemistry student. And now, he’s afraid of losing him.

They sip their tea for a while in silence. Then, Sherlock sets down his half-drank cup, lets out a long, slow breath, and launches into speech.

“I’m twenty-four years old, John,” he begins, voice earnest. His gaze is trained upon his own, now-empty hands. “You would think by now I’d have had at least one serious romantic relationship, but I haven’t. No one has ever looked at me, talked to me for more than a few minutes, and decided that I am someone they could make a life with, or even give a second look to. I’ve been called many things, but never... boyfriend material.” He speaks the last two words with an odd combination of disdain and wistfulness.

“What, so just because I’m the first—” John says, irritation flaring.

“No,” Sherlock cuts him off, gaze intense. “Not the first. I have had dates, several, before you. But none progressed beyond that. One didn’t even make it through the entirety of the first date. And the one who lasted wasn’t interested in… me as a person.”

John processes that, hating that Sherlock has never been treated as he deserves. However, his sympathy does not entirely negate his frustration with the man.

“Look,” he says, trying to tread on neutral ground between giving up his argument and going on the offensive. “I don’t see why that should make you so guarded around me.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Sherlock snaps. He has that tone John has begun to recognize now, that lofty, dismissive tone he adopts when he feels cornered.

“No, I don’t,” John insists. He feels his voice rising but cannot stop it. “I have had to fight tooth and nail for every bit of information about you. You never volunteer to share even the smallest things, like what you want to do after uni, or what your childhood was like—”

“I hardly think those are small things,” Sherlock crosses his arms. “They make up significant aspects of who a person is—”

“You know what I mean!” John cries. “You never offer anything up, any of the usual things you tell someone you’re in a relationship with! You never tell me how you’re feeling, or thinking. I know you like me, like spending time with me, but I feel like I don’t know _you._ ”

“How do you expect me to know what to do in a relationship?” Sherlock says, his own voice increasing in volume now. “I’ve just said I never had one!”

John scoffs, frustrated. He hates that he’s getting angry, but Sherlock isn’t giving him a chance to feel anything else. “That’s only a valid excuse for so long, Sherlock. I’m just asking you to try to let me in! Just a bit! It’s not that hard!”

“Yes it is!” Sherlock bursts out. And something in his tone, in the look on his face, stops John from barking a reply. He can’t pinpoint exactly why, but he can tell Sherlock needs to keep talking. So he backs off, lets him sit there and breathe a moment, hopes he will break the silence before John feels compelled to do it.

“Yes it is,” Sherlock repeats, just as John reaches the number twenty-eight in the count in his head. “It is hard to let people in. Last time I did…” He swallows. His gaze seems fixed to the floor, and his lips are pressed together in a tight line. John waits, the silence thickening between them.

“I don’t know how to do this. I never let people in. It’s... it’s not what I do.” He wrenches his gaze up and meets John’s, eyes silver-grey in the dim light. “But when I met you, when we became…” He gestures with a vague motion between them, and John nods in encouragement. “You, being with you, I mean... it’s exhilarating. I’ve never felt like this. But... it’s the kind of exhilarating like when you’re six years old on your first roller coaster. You’re sitting there as the cars get cranked up to the top of the first hill, and you’re so excited. You’re anticipating the rush down the hill, the twists and turns and loops. But you’re also thinking, in the back of your mind, ‘What if the cars slip? What if we crash or fall through the air?’ And so while you’re thrilled, at the same time, you’re terrified.”

His voice has trailed off to a whisper, his expression soft and defeated. “I don’t have friends, John. I’ve never needed friends, or relationships. For the longest time, I wasn’t interested, because all I saw was how cruel the world could be. And by the time I finally came around, by the time my loneliness made me think I needed to at least _try_ , everyone was taken. Or not interested, or I wasn’t interested in them. Or they lied.” He swallows, and John hates the implication that someone has broken his heart. But before he can speak, Sherlock continues, “It was too late, I thought. I… didn’t anticipate you.”

He stares, chest rising and falling as if he has just finished running. John moves closer and takes his hands. He looks into Sherlock’s face, half-cast in shadows now, the curves and angles made all the more prominent.

“You’re scared the cars are going to rip off the tracks,” John says. He thinks he understands now. “You’re scared of hurtling through the air with no one to catch you. You’re waiting, in other words, for me to decide I can do better. So you don’t want to let me in. You’re trying to protect yourself so that when I leave it doesn’t break you. But Sherlock, I’ve no intention of hurting you. I don’t want to leave. We’re just getting started. I _want_ to get to know you, please, _please_ believe me.”

Sherlock hangs his head. “No one’s ever…” he repeats.

“I know.” John throws caution to the wind now; he moves close and takes Sherlock’s face into his hands, cradling that beautiful jaw, stroking those stunning cheekbones. “I know.” He sighs heavily. “Come here.”

Sherlock leans in, and John wraps his arms around him. “I’m sorry for all this. I just… I want this, what we have, to be good.”

“Has it not been good, so far?” Sherlock’s voice is small, and it twists John’s heart.

“Of course it has, of course,” John gives him a squeeze. “But Sherlock, we could be so much more. You just… you just have to let me in.”

Sherlock swallows hard, burrowing into John’s embrace. “I…” He trails off, though, as if at a loss for what to say now.

“It’s okay,” John murmurs. “I think I’ve sufficiently overloaded us both with things to think about. Let’s go to bed, okay? We can talk in the morning, or even later than that. I don’t want to rush you.” He sighs, a little ashamed of how he’s handled this. There was probably a better way, one not born of frustration. “Are you tired?”

Sherlock nods. “I am. I wasn’t before you came, but as you say, we’ve both been a bit overloaded.” His voice is low, not blaming at all, only resigned.

“To bed then.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Sherlock wakes gradually. When he hears John get out of bed and the shower switch on, everything from the night before floods back. Those memories wake him fully. After they’d gone to bed, Sherlock had reached out tentatively to touch John’s waist, and John had reached back, pulling him close. As if he _still_ wanted him. And Sherlock hardly knows how to feel about that.

A few minutes later, the door into the bedroom opens again. Sherlock rolls over, bracing himself for the conversation that he knows is soon to come.

And he stops.

John has only a towel around his hips, and his skin looks soft, damp, and tantalizing. He smiles when he notices Sherlock’s eyes on him.

“Morning,” Sherlock says. His voice is hoarse, but makes John smile. The writer sits on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It’s soothing, and Sherlock leans into it.

“Good morning.” For several minutes they simply regard each other in silence, John stroking the tangles from the curls.

“You…” Sherlock clears his throat. He hates to bring this up so early, but he knows if he waits another moment, he’ll lose himself in anxiety. “You said we could talk more in the morning. And… it’s morning.”

A crease appears in John’s forehead. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I also said we can take our time.”

“No, I… I want to get it over with.” Sherlock lowers his eyes.

“Okay,” John murmurs. “As long as you’re sure.”

Sherlock nods, and John gives him a soft look — not quite a smile, but as warming and comforting as one.

“Well, I’d rather have this conversation after some sustenance, if that’s okay.”

Sherlock nods again. He watches as John rises and proceeds into the kitchen, swapping the towel for a pair of pyjama bottoms as he goes. After a few minutes of listening to the sounds of John clattering about, Sherlock stands too.

“Can I help?” he says upon reaching the kitchen.

John turns. “No! Go lie down!” He points a spatula back toward the bedroom, a gentle grin on his face.

“But—” This is his own home; John shouldn’t have to do all the work.

John sets down the spatula and grabs Sherlock for a quick kiss. “It’s called breakfast in bed for a reason, yeah? Go lie down.”

Sherlock chuckles and acquiesces, returning to the bed. He pulls out his notebook and jots down a few thoughts while inhaling the scent of bacon and toast. Soon, John arrives with a tray bearing a plate of food and two cups of steaming tea. He hands it to Sherlock to hold, then climbs back into bed and props himself up on the headboard. Sherlock sits up cross-legged, facing John, and situates the tray between them.

They eat and drink in silence, but after half of John’s tea is gone, the writer shifts closer, placing his hand over Sherlock’s on the sheets. “Listen, Sherlock.” He takes a breath. “I know all this is new to you, and you’ve never been in a situation where you can trust someone else with your feelings.” He pauses, and Sherlock reaches out to touch his bare chest. There’s a bruise-like mark there near his collarbone, and Sherlock blushes to realize _he’s_ the one who left it there the night before. John seems to realize what he’s looking at and smirks.

“But you should know,” he continues, “this is new to me too. The relationships I’ve had in the past… they never made me feel as intensely as I do for you.”

“Really?”

John’s eyes glisten. “Really. And that’s… well, it’s like you said last night. Exciting but terrifying, like climbing the hill of a roller coaster. But it isn’t going to stop me.”

“Stop you?” Sherlock frowns.

“From wanting to know you,” John whispers, stroking Sherlock’s cheeks with his thumbs. “All of you, even the arrogant bits you try to hide under the charming bits. I want to know you, and I want you to know me, but that cannot happen until we trust each other and open up. I trust you, but it can’t be one-way like that. Not if this is going to be a proper relationship.”

He pauses, swallowing. Sherlock watches, a little on guard still. “I’m sorry, by the way,” John says. “I shouldn’t have pushed you last night. I shouldn’t have dumped all this on you suddenly. I should have been better about talking with you the last two months. This is not all your fault; it’s mine too.”

Sherlock regards him, full of uncertainty and fear. “John,” he breathes.

“I know it’s a lot,” John says. “I know you’ve never done this before. But if you think I’m worth it, if you think you can maybe come to trust me, tell me. You don’t have to open up, not all the way, not yet. Just tell me it’s possible. Please. Tell me that, and I’ll be patient. I’ll wait for you.”

“I don’t want you to have to wait,” Sherlock murmurs. “But… I can’t just switch off a lifetime of learned behaviour like a tap.”

“I know,” John smiles sadly. “I’m not asking you to. Just… can you try? Can I know you someday?”

Sherlock contemplates him for several lengthy moments, emotions swirling through his mind palace. John’s skin is warm and soft under his fingertips. The writer releases Sherlock’s face, shifting back again as if to give Sherlock some space, some freedom of movement if he wants to retreat. And now, Sherlock knows that John will let him retreat.

But instead of pulling back, he leans forward, wrapping himself around John and burying his face in his neck. John wraps his arms around him with a relieved sigh.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “Someday. I won’t make you wait long.”

John smiles. “Take as long as you need.”

 

* * *

 

New Year’s Eve arrives with its usual air of anticipation. Everyone buys obscene amounts of alcohol and plans raucous parties. Sherlock is glad school is between terms, as he does not fancy hearing all about the insanity his fellow students are getting up to.

Luckily, John seems to not be one for large parties either. He suggested, a little tentatively, that they just spend the evening together.

So here they are, finishing their Chinese takeout and cheap wine. Mrs. Hudson has come and gone, sharing a glass of wine with them but citing her hip and going to bed early. It’s two hours until midnight.

Sherlock edges closer to John on the sofa, taking a breath. He’s been considering this for days, and now the moment is here.

“The first person who lasted more than one date with me was named Victor.”

John turns to face him, surprise springing to his face, but Sherlock plows on, “We had an anatomy class together our last year before going to uni. He was less moronic than the rest of my so-called peers. We went on several dates, if you can call them such at age seventeen. They mostly consisted of pretending to study in my bedroom but actually snogging.

“I… liked him. Call it hormones, as that’s likely all it was. Well, that and he was one of the few people who treated me with any decency in that school. But when he heard I had been calling him my ‘boyfriend’ to others, he laughed in my face. He told me it wasn’t serious between us. He said he didn’t actually want to _date_ me, as if such a thing were inconceivable, ridiculous. I believed him. All the evidence I’d seen pointed to me being undesirable. This just fit in with that hypothesis.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” John grabs his hand, looking agonized. But Sherlock is determined now to finish the story.

“In uni, I tested that hypothesis three more times. Those are the people who only lasted one date with me. Well, half a date in one person’s case.” Sherlock fidgets, ignoring how his heart is beating rather hard and his mind is crying out for him to stop sharing, that vulnerability will backfire and leave him hurt. _No_ , he tells himself. _I can trust John. I have to, if I’m to keep him in my life._

“I gave up two years ago.” He meets John’s gaze for a second before dropping it again. “I decided my brother was right — sentiment is a defect.”

“Sherlock, no,” John sighs. Sherlock lets him pull him into a hug. “That isn’t true.”

“Perhaps not,” he concedes. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I… I am glad to have you in my life, even though I’m somehow defective.”

“You are not defective!” John jerks back to clutch at Sherlock’s shoulders, eyes afire. “Don’t you say that.”

“Sorry.”

John lets out a soft groan and kisses him. They fall silent then, soaking in each other — and Sherlock soaking in the fact he said all that, and nothing terrible happened.

“Thank you for telling me that,” John finally whispers. “Victor was an idiot, obviously. He didn’t deserve you. And neither did those others.”

They separate and relax back into the sofa cushions. John pours them more wine. “So is that why Mycroft is so… overbearing?”

“And insufferable, and interfering and generally a prat?” Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

John chuckles. “Well, at least it makes some sense now.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Well. Perhaps he was right. Most of the people I know are unrepentant idiots. Yourself excepted most of the time.”

That makes John laugh. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and something in his expression makes Sherlock’s heart clench. Being the recipient of such affectionate looks is… remarkable in its unprecedented nature, to say the least.

“Well, speaking of idiots, I used to be an even bigger one. I had a crush on a boy in school who turned out to be the straightest male imaginable. Talk about embarrassing. You know fifteen year olds can’t be subtle.”

Sherlock smirks. Fighting back his instinct to hide, he tells John about his infatuations of his youth on various celebrities. John returns with tales of his own crushes, and anecdotes about awful dates he’s been on.

And Sherlock is shocked to find that it isn’t as uncomfortable or terrifying as he thought. John listens with wholehearted interest, giving kind replies and equally humiliating stories to make Sherlock feel less alone.

Eventually, the conversation fades as they both feel drowsiness tug at them — both from the hour, and from the wine.

Sherlock leans on John’s shoulder as they wait in silence as the last ten minutes tick away. “John?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For being patient.” Gratitude. That’s rare for Sherlock, but yet again, John makes it feel alright.

John’s lips press to the top of Sherlock’s head. “You’re welcome.”

They remain curled up together for several minutes, the silence in between them comfortable. However, as the minute hand on the mantel clock inches closer to midnight, John sits up. He drags Sherlock up with him and turns him so they face each other. Sherlock feels a thrill of anticipation in spite of himself; he has never had a New Year’s kiss before. John keeps an eye on the clock as it ticks away the last minute of the year. He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“Ten,” he whispers, “nine, eight, seven…”

Sherlock shivers a little. John’s eyes are sparkling sapphires, and he cannot tear his eyes away.

“... six, five, four…”

This has to be worth it. He shouldn’t fear this. He doesn’t.

“... three, two, one.”

John brings their lips together in a soft kiss. Sherlock can taste his restrained passion, though, and kisses back with fervor. John’s hands reach around to tangle in his hair, and Sherlock wraps his arms around John, savouring the feeling of his body so close.

When they break apart, John stays near. His lips brush against Sherlock’s cheek and chin as he speaks. “I’m falling for you. Every bit of you,” he whispers. “No one else has anything on you, Sherlock Holmes. I’m hoping to make you see someday that you aren’t defective, and that you do deserve to be cared about.”

And the flutter in Sherlock’s heart makes him think again that, perhaps, a proper relationship doesn’t have to be terrifying. Perhaps it can be good.

So he leans in and kisses John again, trying to pour his emotions into it. His fascination, infatuation, worry, hope. When he pulls away, smiling at the dazed but pleased look on John’s face, he knows what he has to do now.

“Wait here,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

He darts into the bedroom, diving for his bag. Mere seconds are all that’s required for him to find what he needs, and then he hurries back to the sitting room, where John hasn’t moved.

“Here.” He comes to a stop before him, holding it out. His notebook.

John’s eyes widen, and his lips part. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you,” Sherlock’s words catch in his throat a bit, and he has to clear it before he can continue, “a piece of me.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, staring down at the notebook as if it’s some magical artifact.

“Take it.” Sherlock twitches it in his hand. “I want you to read it. I think… I think it will show you some of the… sentimental side of myself.”

John’s smile starts small. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock tilts his head. His heart pounds, but he knows this is the right decision. A small step toward really, truly letting John in. “I am. I can’t promise the poetry is of high quality, but—”

John shakes his head. His fingers grasp the notebook and pull it toward him, handling it as if it’s breakable. “Don’t worry about that. These words are written by you, so… they’ll be beautiful.”

Sherlock scoffs, and that seems to break whatever spell this moment has weaved around, between them. John grins and moves close, taking Sherlock’s right hand in his free one and kissing his knuckles.

“Thank you again, Sherlock,” he says. “I know this was hard for you.”

Sherlock shifts forward, soaking up the warmth emanating from John. “You’re welcome.”

John’s hand lets go of his and moves up to cradle his cheek. “Happy New Year, by the way. I never actually said it aloud.”

Sherlock chuckles. “An arbitrary marking of time. This is not more significant than any other night of the year.”

“Still, it’s a time for turning over new leaves, reflecting on the past and looking forward, and all that,” John points out.

“Well, why can’t people do that any other time?”

John laughs. “Probably because we’ve been told all our lives that this is the time to do that. Besides, aren’t you falling into that trap?” He holds up the notebook. “Deciding tonight to open up?”

Sherlock scowls. “Shut up.”

John just beams at him, and Sherlock leans forward to kiss that knowing, teasing expression off his face. Perhaps John is more correct than Sherlock wants to let on. Perhaps this is a time for venturing down new paths, taking new leaps, turning to new pages.

“John,” he says against his lips, “I’m falling for you too.”

And the way John’s grip on him tightens, the way he kisses him harder, tells Sherlock that perhaps this new sentiment isn’t harmful. Not if John is with him, showing him the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. I’ve been trying to alternate POVs in this series, but I had to cheat a bit in this story, because shortly after writing A Novel Meeting, I started on some follow-up scenes from John’s POV that have ended up falling into this installment, which was intended to just be Sherlock’s POV. This will probably bother no one but me, but still.  
> 2\. John’s mention of “a goose and some kind of gemstone” refers to the short story “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle” by Conan Doyle.  
> 3\. Simpson’s, where we meet Sebastian, is a name stolen from Simpson’s in the Strand, Holmes’ favorite restaurant in the original stories. I changed it to a bakery here.  
> 4\. Also, would anyone be interested in seeing some of Sherlock's poetry? I've drafted a few, but I'm not sure if I want to post them, considering I am not really a poet. However, if enough of you want to see them anyway, I'm willing to give them a polish and add them to this series!


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